


Equal and Opposite

by Eshnoazot



Series: Ineffable Bureaucracy [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art, Beelzebub extorts and supports, Beelzebub is a scientist, Beelzebub's cults, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Boundaries, Gabriel is a musician, Gabriel thwarts and courts, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Plan, Interfaith, Interfaith couple parrallels, Mathematics, Metaphors, Mountain Dew, Names as verbs, Other, Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Right Brain Left Brain, Science, What is a Best Friend anyway, angel headcanons, difficult conversations, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 16:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20585570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshnoazot/pseuds/Eshnoazot
Summary: “Have you ever thought about all this?” Beelzebub asks, and drops to their knees in front of him. They are all eye level, and Gabriel’s violet eyes are confused, but so very pleased to see them.“The earth?”“Us, Friendship,” Beelzebub responds, “Heaven, Hell – the ineffable plan? The Great Plan is gone – what’s next? What are we here for?”“Um,” Gabriel responds, and then he looks away.





	Equal and Opposite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FernStone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernStone/gifts).

> I absolutely believe in writing reciprocal fanfics for people who provide Excellent Fanfics to me. The kind of fanfics that make you get super passionate about writing, or just have a driven to write something specific. They’re not quite fanfics that inspire a new fic based on content or mood – just the kind of fanfics that make me go “Oooh that’s some good shit” like the fiction addict that I am and gets me thinking about something that eventually spirals into a new kind of nonsense.
> 
> So, here’s another reciprocal fanfic bc FernStone wrote Unbecoming and that fucked my shit up for a whole afternoon. And then FernStone had THE GAUL to write Hell is A Pile of Greasy Chips, and then I had to wake up at 7:30AM on my day off because I needed to finish this fic. How DARE YOU write such good content. This is now a call-out fic. Keep it up.

Beelzebub comes tearing up through the contaminated soil, brushing past ancient roman coins and the remnants of ancient bones. The lick of hellfire is on their heels, tearing apart the fabric of the physical and replacing it with metaphysical and celestial willpower. When they emerge, it sets a small fire onto the decaying leaves on the road, and Beelzebub smiles at the destruction they caused even without intent.

It is a small thing, but if the gentle breeze from a butterfly’s wings can cause a tornado in Texas, then there is no telling what burning leaves could do. It is Chaos Theory that governs the bureaucratic stylings of Hell, while Heaven seems to linger between prediction and predestination. Heaven holds true that there is but one _creation_, with parts that move like the cogs of a machine, and it is best to work with the flow of that machine than to act against – because to act against it is sacrilege and blasphemy and a thousand other crimes stemming from a lack of faith in _Her_. Blind faith is all good and well, but it is debatable whether blind faith is really faith at all.

Beelzebub thinks of the universe like a playground, but is happy to use Heaven’s machine metaphor, if Beelzebub gets to be the biggest _wrench_ in the machine. They had a thought once, sometime back before humans figured out plastics and masonry and sandals, that Angels and Demons might be two parts of the whole. If Angels were made of energy, if they were bound by the base forces of creation: electromagnetism, gravity, and strong and weak forces (although sometimes they were not) – then was it so ludicrous to believe that opposites attract? Even magnets snapped together when faced with their opposite.

If the rule is that _for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction_ – and wasn’t that just the crux of the little feud between Heaven and Hell - then in every interaction, there is a pair of forces acting on the two interacting objects.

There is just Beelzebub, with _Hell_ at their back, and Gabriel standing in front of the gates of _Heaven_. (And perhaps the two traitors as well, although Beelzebub loathes thinking about it too much because it is just a little too close to _care_.)

Was it any surprise that Angels had fallen to Hell around the same time _magnetism_ was created?

When Beelzebub arrives on the asphalt, the first thing they see is_ Gabriel_.

There is a file on Gabriel, currently locked in Beelzebub’s top desk drawer. It is grimy, with too-many oily fingerprints, stains from blood and grease and soot. There is a burn mark on one corner, and slick with saliva from too-many licked fingers turning pages. It is every scrap of information Hell has collected on Gabriel since they all woke up, half-baked into sulphur and magma with screams dying on their bloody lips. Beelzebub has read the file a hundred times and scribbled little notes in the margins in a language that only they know – knowledge is dangerous and though Beelzebub is a weaponsmith, they _do not forge swords_ which could _be turned on themselves_.

Gabriel is both a warrior, and the sword.

Gabriel is also sitting in the _gutter_. Beelzebub’s eyebrows raise wordlessly and squints their eyes suspiciously. He has Thai food spread around him, and he’s taken his jacket off to use as an impromptu picnic blanket.

It is a _wonder _that Gabriel and themselves are getting along so well, though Beelzebub is waiting on baited breathe for the punchline. They both conceive of creation in such different ways, allegiances not-withstanding – and Beelzebub isn’t sure if the suspicion that is always present in their mind is nature or nurture or justified.

The file on Gabriel is specific; he is the _first musician_ – having been gifted the trumpet at his birth to herald and sing. They had heard him once, standing on the battlefield and singing songs of praise through brass. There is a rumour, though unconfirmed, that Gabriel had been taught a song by God herself to raise the dead for the final battle. Gabriel is the inventor of Angelic katas and military formation – some of his sketches and blueprints have found their way into Hell. He was created with a sharpened scythe in his hands, ready to deal death and destruction and he’d used it to cultivate fields and oversee the Garden of Eden. He’d used that scythe to plant the apple tree in the Garden of Eden: he’d used the same scythe in Heavenly and righteous duty to bury Moses. Gabriel then, might also be the first gardener, as ludicrous as it sounds. Angels were more or less all artists; they were creative although they firmly denied acknowledgment and instead pointed vaguely to divine inspiration. It was very collectivist of them.

Beelzebub had been, if Heaven was to be correct, an Angel born for medicine and healing. The first doctor, the first brewer and distiller, the first surgeon. Beelzebub sees the universe in much different ways. Hell is _every individual for themselves_, and they had built a long history of doing things just out of spite. There is a reason why Demons had become known for teaching science and philosophy to humankind: because it had been forbidden knowledge once, directly opposing the blind faith of Heaven.

“Beelz!” Gabriel calls, although there is no reason to. Beelzebub is pleased anyway, despite the use of a nickname. It’s growing on them because it might just be the only nickname they’ve ever be given out of fondness and affection.

The demon Crocell had lurked around Euclid in Alexandria to impart the wisdom of geometry, Vapula occasionally popped up to teach mechanics at a for-profit college, and even Crowley had donned the name Astaroth more than once to teach mathematical sciences, handicrafts, and herpetology. Even Beelzebub had popped up once or twice to whisper about maggot therapy and impart the secrets of alcohol and chemistry. It had been so widespread in the beginning that St Augustine had proclaimed _“The good Christian should beware of mathematicians, and all those who make empty prophecies. The danger already exists that the mathematicians have made a covenant with the devil to darken the spirit and to confine man in the bonds of Hell!”_ It had been something so glorious that Dagon had shone with demonic pride for centuries for provoking it from the Saint.

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so _absolutely free_ that your very existence is an act of rebellion – and the mantra of Hell had thrummed through their veins since the first of them had a traitorous thought amongst the clouds of paradise.

Gabriel is sitting in the gutter, and he offers a smile that is far too guilty. He patted the gutter beside him with his hand. Beelzebub meets him there but crouches in front of him just to be contrary. There is something that has been weighing on Beelzebub’s mind, and they can’t accept any hospitality until it is sorted. It is easier to walk away if you are already standing.

Crowley had tried to explain a very poor bit of low-level evil centuries ago, about creating the concept of _metaphorical lateralization of brain function_ – which had earned him a shoe thrown at his head because Demons weren’t much for fancy words when simple ones would suffice. They also really weren’t much for PowerPoint presentations.

_‘No, but get this’_, Crowley had said at the beginning of his poorly-formatted slideshow_, ‘I convinced a human – Roger Sperry – to convince a bunch of them that the right side of the brain is all creative and the left side is the mathy side.’_

_‘You haven’t reported in, in 50 years and you’ve come back to tell us you started a rumour,’_ Beelzebub had responded crossly.

_‘No,’_ Dagon had responded, cleaning a knife, _‘He said that he spent 50 years telling _someone else_ to start a rumour.’_

It was one of the few reports Beelzebub could remember, because the thrown shoe had broken Crowley’s nose, and the bloodstain was still on the meeting room floor. Entertainment was rare in Hell sometimes, and you fondly recalled when it was delivered freely.

It felt like a clunky metaphor: Heaven, the right brain, _always right_, of artists and faith and delight, Hell the left brain, those who had left behind everything, of constant skeptical analysts, the faithless, the sufferers. Satan had tried to explain it once, drawing calculations in the same manner he had once built stars: to finally explain why not even _She_ could know what was going to happen forever.

If _She_ knew all the positions, velocities and forces on all the atoms in the universe for all times, then she could know the universe for all times. It would require that there would be a conservation of information, as much as conservation of matter and energy. If that were true, there would be no chance: all randomness would be epistemic.

_She_ would have known they would Fall, even planned it.

All Demons and all Angels know that there is no information constant: _entropy creeps_. The humans call this the second law of thermodynamics. They also call it the eventual heat death of the universe: Beelzebub will not comment on whether this is an option, whether this might be the aftermath of the final battle. For humankind, the line between art and science, physics and faith, study and devotion – has never been a conflict but dual lampposts in the dark. _‘Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind’_ so went the saying.

Demons do not do math anymore.

Gabriel is the first thing they see when they arise from Hell, and he is sitting in the gutter looking guilty, and a little put out that Beelzebub has chosen to crouch in front of him, rather than sit by his side. His hand is holding a fork and knife, both silver cutleries, and his jacket-turned-picnic-blanket is set with a proper ceramic plate. His smartphone, used exclusively to book the cottage on Airbnb, has been turned upside down with the torch function on. There is a crystal glass goblet, already filled with mountain dew, and the carbonation has already fizzled out.

Beelzebub stares at it for a little longer than they should; the air between Gabriel and themselves change in strange and indescribable ways, and Beelzebub can’t help but frown. There is something that needs to be said, something they have been both avoiding, like a reader refusing to read the final chapter of a book.

“Have you ever thought about all this?” Beelzebub asks, and drops to their knees in front of him. They are all eye level, and Gabriel’s violet eyes are confused, but so very pleased to see them.

“The earth?”

“Us, _Friendship_,” Beelzebub responds, “Heaven, Hell – the ineffable plan? The Great Plan is gone – what’s next? _What are we here for_?”

“_Um_,” Gabriel responds, and then he looks away.

It is a touchy area, the one thing between them that could sever this growing thing. The place between their ideologies where they might not be room for cooperation or compromise. Right brain left brain. The right side, and those who left it. The suffering and the heavenly hymns. The scythe which could be used for death and destruction, or life and apple trees.

“I don’t remember who I was before I Fell,” Beelzebub says, and feels the words forcing themselves from their throat, “I just remember the screaming, and the _agony_, and not being able to remember anything – except that I was not welcome in Heaven. I remember the feeling that something had been carved out from inside of me with something rusty and blunted and_ stolen_ from me.”

Gabriel stills, and when he glances back, Beelzebub cannot figure out what he is thinking.

“It was too dark, and too bright,” Beelzebub continues, and stares down at their broken fingernails, “It smelled like burning feathers and flesh. It felt like everything had been stripped from me- even my _name_.”

“We _knew_,” Gabriel responds, and it is a broken and quiet voice, “We knew what would happen. They you – _all demons_ – would forget. Our names are our purpose, our _mission_ – human names are adjectives, but an Angels name is a_ verb_.”

Beelzebub is shivering now, and it isn’t because they are cold.

“My name, my mission, is to _Her_, my strength is _Her_ strength. _She _is my judge. Raphael – was a verb commanding its bearer to heal in God’s name,” Gabriel’s hand balls up in his scarf, “When you refused to heal in God’s name, refused to heal in God’s name – that verb was no longer something that applied to you. It was no longer _you_. It could be you again, if you made that choice. That’s how it works.”

“How fucking _dare,_ you,” Beelzebub responded, and they have started to shake with rage, “I’m not an Archangel, I’m not a Healer, not a pair of _wank wings_ like you. _I will never be that_.”

“You aren’t_ now_,” Gabriel responded, “And if you never choose to be again, it wouldn’t change the fact that you’re my Best Friend. But that’s how it works. You have to choose which side of the coin to display – and the personality and memories and scratches on one side don’t transfer over to the other, but they’re the same coin. You’d remember if you chose to be _Raphael_ again – but you’d forget what it means to _be _Beelzebub. Beelzebub is a verb too, I think.”

Beelzebub’s lips are pressed thin into slits, bloodless, colourless, feelingless.

“When Lucifer, our brother, chose to abandon his name, his purpose, his mission – he took 1/3rd of all Angels with him,” Gabriel continued; his fists are clenched, but not tensed to strike, “His name, his verb, was to bring _light_. He chose to bring darkness instead. He could no longer bear his name, no longer wanted to bear that mission – that message of light, so he couldn’t be an Angel either. All Angels are messengers of _Her_, or we are not Angels. So, he had to be something else – and so when all the demons Fell, their names and status were gone. Heaven _did not take your names_; those were willingly left behind. Those were a choice, and you cannot be an Angel if you didn’t carry your name as a mission – but the _Fall_ – that was a choice we all made when we decided what we stood for, and who we would speak for.”

Beelzebub is still shaking, still blind with fury and rage that has never left their body. Whether the Fall was ordained by _predestination_ or a _choice_ didn’t change the fact that it had caused pain and suffering and agony upon those who couldn’t remember the crime. What was now proved was now only imagined.

Gabriel reached out and took one of Beelzebub’s hands. Beelzebub can feel fury swelling deep inside, until their heart was a hive of angry starving wasps, before Gabriel spoke in a distant tone.

“I prefer this to crying,” Gabriel responded promptly, but gently, “I told you I’d prefer to spend our time holding hands and not crying.”

Beelzebub looked down and narrowed their eyes, “Are you _sad_?”

“Yes,” Gabriel responded bluntly, and all of Beelzebub’s hate turns to surprise, “But bodily liquids are _gross_, and I will express my emotions like this instead, if you would continue please?”

Beelzebub frowned, but couldn’t locate the anger that had been simmering for millennium. They just feel tired, and weary – this is an old argument, but one that has never been held over cutlery and ceramic plates in a gutter. Isn’t it just a clunky metaphor, for something that shouldn’t be? Gabriel’s hand isn’t even sweaty this time.

“Michael cast him out,” Beelzebub replied, leaning forward slightly, “There was a fight that we don’t remember properly. That’s witness tampering if I ever heard it.”

“Michael’s mission is to ask a question we already know – who is like unto God?” Gabriel responded, “And it was a battle cry, to name _yourself_ is to declare that God had made a mistake in naming you. Only God knows who you are, what was right for you to speak the message of. Angels are not _capable _of sin – we are not flawed like human creations. _We never stole an apple_.”

“You cannot have light without darkness – who are you to decide whether the mission has to be done a certain way,” Beelzebub retorted, and then frowned, “_Punishment_ implies _sin_. Demons have been punished. And I think it might be Angelic sin to think Angels are perfect if only _She_ is perfect right? I’ve watched those TV evangelicals – some of Hell’s best work there.”

Gabriel shrugged, “I don’t know. I thought I _did_ once, but I _don’t_ anymore. All I know, is that I have a mission to follow, and I never intend on departing from that mission. It is my duty to follow, it was always your nature to question and wrestle with _Her_. I wouldn’t, _not even for you_.”

It is a line in the sand, a declaration of boundaries.

But it is not the insurmountable wall Beelzebub had once thought it would be.

If Angels and Demons are left and right brain, if there is a duality in the same object used for death and life, if maggots can be used for healing and infestation, if choices can be made in any direction – then there might be room for both sides of the same coin. There might be room for a friendship built across the divide, bridged by hands held tightly and meeting each other halfway.

Beelzebub stills for a very long time, and Gabriel tightens his hold on their hand like a lifeline. There is a promise in his grip, and Beelzebub feels like he is moving so very fast for an Angel who certainly doesn’t know what he is offering.

Beelzebub doesn’t cry, because tears boil away before they even fall in Hell, and so the instinct has been rubbed away and calloused over in Hell. They do buzz inside their chest like a thousand anxious flies, all frantically crying out. Gabriel doesn’t cry, because he might actually be a germophobic neat freak, but he _does_ hold hands just a little too tight. Both of them redirect their tears into silence.

“I said that to you once,” Beelzebub replies, and finally sits down on his jacket, “I filed that paperwork. The first day you decided that you needed a Best Friend _– and you clearly have no idea what a Best Friend is_ – but we’ll file that away for a latter discussion we’ll never have because I’m not your therapist, right?”

“I remember,” Gabriel responded, and leveled a smile sideways, mimicking Beelzebub’s tone, “_’__You’re working on __my terms__ now. My terms are that my name is __Lord Beelzebub__, I am a Prince of Hell, I am a Demon and I will never __forsake what I stand for, what I believe in__ – __not even for you,__ Archangel Gabriel’ – _you’re very dramatic, for a Prince of Hell, Beelzebub. You should consider a career in the Arts instead. I know a guy at Julliard.”

“_Shut_ up.”

“You also apologised to me,” Gabriel responded brightly, “Which was such a historical moment that I’ve framed the memory in my office. I’m going to hold an open gallery soon, so the people can witness something more beautiful than any human painting.”

“_Shut up_.”

“It was a _rush_,” Gabriel cheerfully added, “The adrenaline, better than jogging or pretending to buy pornography.”

“What the _fuck_?” Beelzebub demanded, “What kind of degenerative malfunctioning Angel are you anyway? How do you not understand the kind of _shit_ you say.”

“You can’t trick me, I know that Demon insults are _compliments_,” Gabriel responded with too many teeth, “I’m absolutely _flattered_ you think _so highly of me_, and to answer your question – I am the kind of Angel that has an office big enough to host half of Heaven to attend my experimental art gallery opening. Medium: candid shots of Demons_ apologising_. Ground-breaking, original and innovative.”

Beelzebub squeezed Gabriel’s hand as hard as they could. Gabriel’s hands were starting to get a little sweaty already, but he seemed to just generally be a leaky mess in his corporation. Gabriel busied himself by reaching for the glass of mountain dew and extending it to Beelzebub like a peace offering: one-third high fructose corn syrup, two-thirds an answer to the question _‘what comes next?’_. Beelzebub accepted the glass and brings it to their lips without breaking eye contact. Gabriel’s eyes were very bright and purple today, although Beelzebub logically knew that they were no different than any other day.

“So,” Beelzebub says, for lack of something else to say, “Why aren’t we inside? I need to stretch my wings out and you and Heaven will throw a _fit_ if a bunch of humans start another cult around me. You did convert my last High Priest just by performing some party tricks though, so you probably owe me one.

“Wasn’t much of a High Priest if Gideon thought a rock shooting fire, and two nights of wool was enough to sway his mind,” Gabriel pointed out, “You should consider paying your employees more.”

“He destroyed my altar,” Beelzebub huffed, “And you decided to celebrate by causing an absolute racket by giving 300 non-musical men trumpets and having them attack a private function.”

“_’Private function’_?” Gabriel scoffed,

“_Sin bin_ then,” Beelzebub countered, and took a leisurely sip of soda while Gabriel huffed, “It was better _before_ you decided to slaughter my followers. They gave tribute perfectly: I had your chosen people carrying an image of me in their pockets to kiss, they were absolutely _in love_ with me.”

“Oh, like _that’s hard_,” Gabriel dismissed.

“_What_?” Beelzebub almost spilled their drink in surprise.

“It was a Demon military training camp,” Gabriel countered, as if he hadn’t casually declared something momentous, “You _undid all the work_ anyway – do you know what kind of absolute pain it is to write a report detailing how the King you’ve installed to politically stabilise a region fathered 70 sons, and then _died_ – and then the whole region went back to worshipping _you_? The paperwork took out my office for a _decade_.”

“_Serves him right_,” Beelzebub snapped back, “Everything was _glorious_ until he messed with things. Serves you right too! You did smite my Ekron cult, and my Tyrian colony in Carthage cult, AND my Samarian cult. What did you expect? To just let you gatecrash our private party. We were having a _blast_. They’d just really started figuring out wine properly then, and there was enough mead to get all of Hell in a good mood. You lot were the ones to get out the swords and start a war. Ruined my whole century to have to deal with your dumb face and clumsy battering-ram of a sword. Had you even held a sword before then?”

Beelzebub laughed at Gabriel’s face: all twisted up in a look of offense and

“You were the one who decided to get into a sword fight – _without a sword_,” Gabriel’s voice grew higher in pitch, “Were you intoxicated when we fought? How could you be so stupid?”

“_Only intoxicated by your face_,” Beelzebub responded in a sarcastic voice, “I might have been actually – you smelled so bad you were definitely fermenting then. My eyes were watering.”

“It was a battle!”

“No excuse not to bathe,” Beelzebub tutted, “I mean you barely groom your wings – you might get away with your _just-rolled-out-of-bed_ wings charm in Heaven, but you’d be laughed at in Hell. Get a brush. You can get a pack of bristled combs and brushes at the dollar store if you’re a little miracle-poor now.”

“At least I had dignity,” Gabriel huffed, “Were you wearing a burial shroud during that fight? What kind of youth rebellious subculture were you trying to kick off the ground?”

“And you’re any better!” Beelzebub snapped back, “_’ I will not retain you in my heart, Fallen’_ what an absolute wanker of a way to say, _‘I don’t give a shit about you, now die!_’. You talked like what an Angel with a trust fund would speak like. Your surname is double-barrelled, right?”

“I don’t have a surname,” Gabriel responded in confusion, “Angels do not have surnames.”

“The other one does,” Beelzebub responded, “Owns a bookshop and all. A.Z Fell.”

“Fell is also a verb name,” Gabriel responded cheerfully, “Because he’s not our problem anymore.”

“If your Angel fell, our Demon _ascended_,” Beelzebub responded cheerfully, “I’m sure Heaven needs a new serpent mascot since we scored Leviathan in the Fall, anyway.”

“This isn’t a trade,” Gabriel responded sternly, “Heaven doesn’t do exchange programs.”

“Are you sure about that?” Beelzebub idly responded, “How will the dual citizenship work when the traitors get hitched. _Satan-damned_, do you think they’ll invite everyone to the _wedding_?”

“_No_,” Gabriel responded, looking a little alarmed, “They wouldn’t, right? They’re _Just Good_ _Friends_.”

“No, they’re _Best Friends_!” Beelzebub retorted in Gabriel’s too-cheery voice, before adding, “How do you know what _pornography_ is, but don’t get that they’re probably attending a couple’s pottery class as we speak? Maybe they’re having a picnic.”

As soon as the words were out of their mouth, Beelzebub froze and had a moment of self-realization that they have technically engaged in a picnic themselves. A jacket on the ground and cold-Thai food probably fit the criteria, and the cutlery and ceramic certainly did.

“They’re the _worst_,” Gabriel blanched, while Beelzebub processed this, “Also, your pants and shoes are caked in mud. Don’t get my jacket dirty.”

“Says the Angel with the filthy wings,” Beelzebub moodily replied, but lifted legs off the fabric, “Are you wearing linen suits? _Oh, Anti-Christ_, don’t you have a jacket that isn’t screaming _‘mug me’_?”

“You’re wearing three different fishnets,” Gabriel huffed, “You can’t criticise my wings when you’ve got coal dust on your jacket.”

“You don’t like my cologne?” Beelzebub adopted a hurt look, just to rifle him up, “Anyway, my clothing are _on_ me, they’re not part of me,” Beelzebub said smugly, “If you want mites and broken feathers be my guest – but if you want to look like you’ve heard of personal grooming, then lets go inside and let me groom your tangled feathers.”

Gabriel looked a little _nervous_, and Beelzebub narrowed in on the emotion like a shark. It was very interesting indeed.

“Let me rephrase,” Beelzebub retorted again, “Because either I’m getting a cult or I’m going to headhunt you – I’m sure you’d find a decent animal aspect to bond over. You could be a slug, or a blobfish, or a _worm_. Something without a backbone probably. You’d make a nice-looking personal assistant if Dagon didn’t eat you. She does get a little peckish in the afternoons.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, but didn’t rise to the casual barb, “I’m not currently seeking new employment.”

“Great, because it wasn’t a job offer, you’re too much of a liability,” Beelzebub added, “Cult it is! This time I’m going to ban vaccines and birth control and have them worship _you_ on the side. How does Heaven view false idolatry when it’s via proxy? Want to get started on the transfer paperwork now? I could do with a new intern.”

Gabriel squeezed Beelzebub’s hand a little tighter for just a moment, and his eyes adopted the distinct look of inner turmoil. Beelzebub waited with more patience than they thought they had, until he spoke again.

“Mistakes were made,” Gabriel said, puffed up with false bravado, “…Mostly _mine_, and the cottage was not secured in time. There’s someone else in there, and they were not willing to leave.”

“You know I’m a Prince of Hell, right?” Beelzebub scoffed, “Pigeon, I am short, angry and hungry, I’ll have any humans out in three minutes.”

“Not humans,” Gabriel responded carefully, “The uh, traitors.”

Beelzebub’s face went carefully blank.

“They were both insistent that they will not leave,” Gabriel continued, “They specifically made mention to the fact that they believe that we are conducting surveillance on them as an interoffice initiative to bring them down.”

“Gabriel,” Beelzebub responded with an eyeroll, “Are you an Archangel or not? This is the time, if any, to throw some diving smiting around the place.”

“I don’t have the clearance for that,” Gabriel responded, a little dejectedly, “I thought well, we’re close enough? This is nice? It’s like a picnic.”

Beelzebub peered back in absolute incredulousness, “Right, _come on_ then.”

With that said, Beelzebub stood, and was marching down the front path to the cottage before Gabriel had a chance to process the words. Beelzebub was banging on the front door as Gabriel frantically scooped up his jacket and assorted objects with the same grace as a stallholder at a car boot.

“OI!” Beelzebub yelled, “Traitors! Get out here now or I’ll break the door down!”

Beelzebub continued to bang until a noticeable dent was starting to form in the wood. Eventually, there was a frantic voice on the other side, and the door swung open to reveal the infamous duo, clad in pajamas.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley acknowledged, taking a long sip from his cup, “I wasn’t aware you did house visits now. Gotta say, I’ve been enjoying the opportunity to work from home. Archwanker Gabriel, back so soon for more humiliation? Maybe you _actually _are Best Friends with the Queen Fly here. Some people_ are_ into that I guess.”

“_What_,” Beelzebub responded flatly, “Explain yourself.” 

“I know I’ve always been a model employee,” Crowley continued.

“You never have- “

“But this – the opportunity to tempt an Angel – I know I’ve gone above and beyond here – I’ll make sure to write a report evaluating the absolutely disgraceful efforts to seduce Angels. We can all do so much better,” Crowley threw an obnoxious wink at his co-conspirator, why flushed red, “I’m doing the Lord Satan’s work here. It’s a tough job but someone’s gotta do it.”

“I’d like to read that report,” Gabriel interjected.

“_Hilarious_,” Beelzebub responded, “Get the fuck out of my cottage.”

“_No_,” Crowley replied, sipping again, and glancing back over his shoulder at Aziraphale, who threw back an encouraging look, “Please come back in business hours to discuss work matters.”

“Hell has business hours?” Gabriel responded in surprise.

“_No_,” Beelzebub snapped again at the Angel, “You, _stop talking_. Crowley – you get your _Angel boyfriend_ and _piss off._ Go to Vegas or something. Stop billing things to us, you decided to move out, cover your own shit.”

Aziraphale startled a little, Crowley looked _offended_.

“Stop running _surveillance_ on us,” Crowley hissed, “Quite frankly, the amount of time you two have spent spying on us is concerning. Do you _miss _us?”

“I never _miss when I aim_,” Beelzebub retorted sharply, “Also I don’t give a shit about you two. Gabriel and I are Friends.”

“Allegedly,” Crowley added.

“_Best_ Friends,” Gabriel added brightly.

“Oh, _Dear_,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Right,” Crowley dubiously replied, leaning against the doorframe, “I’m sure the two of you bond over being…_the worst_ or something. Or _surveillance tactics_.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, you cold-blooded freak,” Gabriel snapped, and swung an arm around Beelzebub that pressed them to his side, “My Best Friend and I know how to have actual conversations about things other than a _betrayal _of the highest magnitude.”

“Don’t touch me,” Beelzebub hissed, and straightened as Gabriel released like something burned him.

“And I respect that because we are _friends_,” Gabriel added.

“Best Friends,” Beelzebub added, just to watch the traitors squirm.

“_Right_,” Crowley said dubiously, staring at the two in something like horror. He seemed to be processing something, and Beelzebub suspiciously peered between him and Gabriel – wondering exactly how Gabriel had known the traitors were holed up in the bunker. Crowley had alluded to an earlier conversation that Gabriel had no doubt bungled.

“Get out or I’ll set this cottage on fire,” Beelzebub added, “And I’ll burn you all down with it.”

“That’s a little _dramatic_, don’t you think Beelz?”

“Gabe, I will _throw you in here_ with them if you don’t shut up.”

Gabriel huffed.

“I’ll lock the door behind you,” Beelzebub added, “And I’ll submit the death of two Angels and a former employee to take out employee of the month.”

“Who would bring you Thai Food?” Gabriel blinked back, and Beelzebub found themselves a little disappointed that he was growing to be unfazed by such comments, “Since Heaven foots the bill, I thought you’d be delighted with the idea that you’re defunding the opposition.”

Beelzebub brightened a little, “How do you justify the expenses?”

“Diplomatic catering fees,” Gabriel responded, with too many teeth, “As part of the new Demon Sensitivity requirements of inter-office communication. I promoted Chamuel.”

“Excuse me, we are right here,” Crowley interjected, “Kind of important. Averted the apocalypse and all?”

“Don’t be a one-hit wonder Demon Crowley,” Gabriel replied, “You’re just a vermin infestation and our Thai Food is getting cold.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, in a disturbed tone, “I really do think they’re actually Friends.”

“Best Friends,” Gabriel and Beelzebub added in sync, and then glanced at each other in surprise.

“Gross,” Crowley added, with a sidelong glance, “You’re still not getting our cottage.”

“That’s fine then,” Beelzebub said, and tried to mimic Gabriel’s terrifying glee, “There’s an empty one across the road anyway.”

With that Beelzebub spun on their heels, grabbed Gabriel by the hand and started to stride across the road in the direction of the cottage the traitors _actually owned_. It worked like a charm, and Crowley and Aziraphale came out like rockets, high in alarm over the startling idea that an Archangel and Demon might set up shop in their own house and refuse to leave.

“It’s your _choice _really,” Beelzebub called without glancing back, “Pick a goddamn cottage and stay there, don’t mess with what is _mine_.”

It is a small thing, but if the gentle breeze from a butterfly’s wings can cause a tornado in Texas, then a demon holding the hand of an Archangel in South Downs might do something else. Beelzebub isn’t sure yet what that might be – _what is next_, now that the plan is as ineffable as its name. But if all of creation is a coin, they might have found a way to bridge both sides.

**Author's Note:**

> What happens in a Tik Tok livestream stays in the TikTok livestream.  
Except the cursed content. That stuff makes it into fanfics.


End file.
